Miserrimus Dexter laughed contemptuously.
“Major Fitz-David may do very well for the ladies,” he said. “The ladies can treat him as a species of elderly human lap-dog. I don’t dine with lap-dogs; I have said, No. You go. He or some of his ladies may be of use to you. Who are the guests? Did he tell you?”
“There was a French lady whose name I forget,” I said, “and Lady Clarinda—”
“That will do! She is a friend of Mrs. Beauly’s. She is sure to know where Mrs. Beauly is. Come to me the moment you have got your information. Find out if the maid is with her: she is the easiest to deal with of the two. Only make the maid open her lips, and we have got Mrs. Beauly. We crush her,” he cried, bringing his hand down like lightning on the last languid fly of the season, crawling over the arm of his chair—“we crush her as I crush this fly. Stop! A question—a most important question in dealing with the maid. Have you got any money?”
“Plenty of money.”
He snapped his fingers joyously.
“The maid is ours!” he cried. “It’s a matter of pounds, shillings, and pence with the maid. Wait! Another question. About your name? If you approach Mrs. Beauly in your own character as Eustace’s wife, you approach her as the woman who has taken her place—you make a mortal enemy of her at starting. Beware of that!”
My jealousy of Mrs. Beauly, smoldering in me all through the interview, burst into flames at those words. I could resist it no longer—I was obliged to ask him if my husband had ever loved her.
“Tell me the truth,” I said. “Did Eustace really—?”
He burst out laughing maliciously, he penetrated my jealousy, and guessed my question almost before it had passed my lips.